The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  There were only stars lighting our way. The moon so slender it was almost no moon at all. Under the trellis it was dark as Denna’s hair.

  Our eyes were wide and stretching to the dark, and where the starlight slanted through the leaves, they showed hundreds of selas blossoms yawning open in the night. If the scent of selas were not so delicate, it would have been overpowering.

  “Oh,” Denna sighed, looking around with wide eyes. Under the bower, her skin was brighter than the moon. She reached out her hands to both sides. “They’re so soft!”

  We walked in silence. All around us selas vines wove themselves around the trellis, clinging to the wood and wire, hiding their faces from the nighttime sky. When eventually we came out the other side, it seemed as bright as daylight.

  The silence stretched until I started to grow uncomfortable. “So now you know your flower,” I said. “It seemed a shame you’d never seen one. They’re rather difficult to cultivate, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Perhaps they do suit me then,” Denna said softly, looking down. “I don’t take root easily.”

  We continued walking until the path turned and hid the bower behind us.

  “You treat me better than I deserve,” Denna said at last.

  I laughed at the ridiculousness of that. Only respect for the silence of the garden kept it from rolling out of me in a great booming laugh. Instead I stifled it as much as possible, though the effort threw me off my stride and made me stumble.

  Denna watched me from a step away, a smile spreading across her mouth.

  Eventually I caught my breath. “You who sang with me the night I won my pipes. You who have given me the finest gift I ever did receive.” A thought occurred to me. “Did you know,” I said, “that your lute case saved my life?”

  The smile spread and grew, wide as a flower. “Did it now?”

  “It did,” I said. “I cannot ever hope to treat you as well as you deserve. Given what I owe you, this is but the smallest payment.”

  “Well, I think it is a lovely start.” She looked up at the sky and drew a long, deep breath. “I’ve always liked moonless nights best. It’s easier to say things in the dark. It’s easier to be yourself.”

  She began walking again and I fell into step beside her. We passed a fountain, a pool, a wall of pale jasmine open to the night. We crossed a small stone bridge that led us back among the shelter of the hedges.

  “You could put your arm around me, you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “We are walking in the gardens, alone. In the moonlight, such as it is.” Denna looked sideways at me, the side of her mouth quirking upward. “Such things are permitted, you realize.”

  Her sudden change in manner caught me off my guard. Since we had met in Severen I had courted her with wild, hopeless pageantry, and she had matched me without missing a beat. Each flattery, each witticism, each piece of playful banter she returned to me, not in an echo but a harmony. Our back-and-forth had been like a duet.

  But this was different. Her tone was less playful and more plain. It was so sudden a change that I was at a loss for words.

  “Four days ago I turned my foot on that loose flagstone,” she said softly. “Remember? We were walking on Mincet Lane. My foot slipped and you caught me almost before I knew that I was stumbling. It made me wonder how closely you must be watching me to see something like that.”

  We turned a corner in the path, and Denna continued to speak without looking up at me. Her voice was soft and musing, almost as if she were talking to herself. “You had your hands on me then, sure as anything, steadying me. You almost had your arm around me. It would have been so easy for you then. A matter of inches. But when I got my feet beneath me, you took your hands away. No hesitation. No lingering. Nothing I might take amiss.”

  She started to turn her face to me, then stopped and looked down again. “It’s quite a thing,” she said. “There are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. And there is one of you, trying just the opposite. Making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest I fall.”

  Almost shyly, she reached out. “When I move to take your arm, you accept it easily. You even lay your hand on mine, as if to keep it there.” She explained my movement exactly as I was making it, and I fought to keep the gesture from becoming suddenly awkward. “But that’s all. You never presume. You never push. Do you know how strange that is to me?”

  We looked at each other for a moment, there, in the silent moonlight garden. I could feel the heat of her standing close to me, her hand clinging to my arm.

  Inexperienced as I was with women, even I could read this cue. I tried to think of what to say, but I could only wonder at her lips. How could they be so red as this? Even the selas was dark in the faint moonlight. How were her lips so red?

  Then Denna froze. Not that we were moving much, but in a moment she went from motionless to still, cocking her head like a deer straining to catch a half-heard sound. “Someone’s coming,” she said. “Come on.” Clinging to my arm, she pulled me off the path, over a stone bench, and through a low, narrow gap in the hedges.

  We finally came to rest in the center of some thick bushes. There was a convenient hollow where we both had room to crouch. Thanks to the work of the gardeners there was no undergrowth to speak of, no dry leaves or twigs to crackle or snap under our hands and knees. In fact, the grass in this sheltered place was thick and soft as any lawn.

  “There are a thousand girls who could walk with you along the moonlit garden paths,” Denna said breathlessly. “But there’s only one who’ll hide in the shrubbery with you.” She grinned at me, her voice bubbling with amusement.

  Denna peered out of the hedge toward the path, and I looked at her. Her hair fell like a curtain down the side of her head, and the tip of her ear was peeking out through it. It was, at that moment, the most lovely thing that I had ever seen.

  Then I heard the faint grit of footsteps on the path. The soft sound of voices came sifting through the hedge, a man and a woman. After a moment they came walking around the corner, arm in arm. I recognized them immediately.

  I turned and leaned close, breathing softly into Denna’s ear. “That’s the Maer,” I said. “And his young ladylove.”

  Denna shivered, and I shrugged out of my burgundy cloak, draping it over her shoulders.

  I peered back out at the two of them. As I watched, Meluan laughed at something he said and rested her hand atop his on her arm. I doubted he’d have much more need of my services if they were already on such familiar terms as that.

  “Not for you, my dear,” I heard the Maer say clearly as they passed near us. “You shall have nothing but roses.”

  Denna turned to look at me, her eyes wide. She pressed both her hands against her mouth to stifle her laugher.

  In another moment they were past us, strolling slowly along, walking in step. Denna removed her hands and took several deep, shuddering breaths. “He has a copy of the same worn book,” she said, her eyes dancing.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Apparently.”

  “So that’s the Maer,” she said quietly, her dark eyes peering between the leaves. “He’s shorter than I imagined.”

  “Would you like to meet him?” I asked. “I could introduce you.”

  “Oh that would be lovely,” she said with a gentle edge of mockery. She chuckled, but when I didn’t join her laughter, she looked up at me and stopped. “You’re serious?” She cocked her head to one side, her expression trapped between amusement and confusion.

  “We probably shouldn’t burst out of the hedge at him,” I admitted. “But we could come out on the other side and loop around to meet him.” I gestured with my hand at the route we could take. “I’m not saying he’ll invite us to dinner or anything. But we can make a polite nod as we pass him on the path.”

  Denna continued to stare at me, her eyebrows furrowing in the faint beginning of a frown. “You’re serious,” she repeated.

  “What do you . . .” I stopp
ed as I realized what her expression meant. “You thought I was lying about working for the Maer,” I said. “You thought I was lying about being able to invite you in here.”

  “Men tell stories,” she said dismissively. “They like to brag a bit. I didn’t think any less of you for telling me a bit of a tall tale.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said, then reconsidered. “No, that’s not the truth. I would. You’re worth lying for. But I wasn’t. You’re worth telling the truth for too.”

  Denna gave me fond smile. “That’s harder to come by anyway.”

  “So would you like to?” I asked. “Meet him, I mean?”

  She looked out of the hedge toward the path. “No.” When she shook her head her hair moved like drifting shadows. “I believe you. There’s no need.” She looked down. “Besides, I’ve got grass stains on my dress. What would he think?”

  “I’ve got leaves in my hair,” I admitted. “I know exactly what he would think.”

  We stepped out from the hedge. I picked the leaves out of my hair and Denna brushed her hands down the front of her skirt, wincing a bit as she moved over the grass stains.

  We made our way back onto the path and started walking again. I thought of putting my arm around her, but didn’t. I was no good judge of these things, but it seemed the moment had passed.

  Denna looked up as we passed a statue of a woman picking a flower. She sighed. “It was more exciting when I didn’t know I had permission,” she admitted with a little regret in her voice.

  “It always is,” I agreed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Interlude—The Thrice-locked Chest

  KVOTHE RAISED HIS HAND, motioning Chronicler to stop. The scribe wiped the nib of his pen on a nearby cloth and rolled his shoulder stiffly. Wordlessly, Kvothe brought out a worn deck of cards and began to deal them around the table. Bast picked up his cards and looked them over curiously.

  Chronicler frowned. “What—”

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden landing outside, and the door to the Waystone Inn opened, revealing a bald, thick-bodied man wearing an embroidered jacket.

  “Mayor Lant!” the innkeeper said, putting down his cards and getting to his feet. “What can I do for you? A drink? A bite to eat?”

  “A glass of wine would be quite welcome,” the mayor said as he moved into the room. “Do you have any red Gremsby in?”

  The innkeeper shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The roads, you know. It’s hard to keep things in stock.”

  The mayor nodded. “I’ll take anything red then,” he said. “But I won’t pay more than a penny for it, mind you.”

  “Of course not, sir,” the innkeeper said solicitously, wringing his hands a bit. “Anything to eat?”

  “No,” the bald man said. “I’m actually here to make use of the scribe. I thought I’d wait until things quieted down a bit, so we could have some privacy.” He looked around the empty room. “I don’t imagine you’d mind my borrowing the place for half an hour, would you?”

  “Not at all.” The innkeeper smiled ingratiatingly. He made a shooing motion to Bast.

  “But I had a full board!” Bast protested, waving his cards.

  The innkeeper frowned at his assistant, then headed back into the kitchen.

  The mayor removed his jacket and laid it across the back of a chair while Bast gathered up the rest of the cards, grumbling.

  The innkeeper brought out a glass of red wine, then locked the front door with a large brass key. “I’ll take the boy upstairs with me,” he said to the mayor, “to give you some privacy.”

  “That’s exceedingly kind of you,” the mayor said as he sat across from Chronicler. “I’ll give a shout when I’m finished.”

  The innkeeper nodded and herded Bast out of the common room and up the stairs. Kvothe opened the door to his room and gestured Bast inside.

  “I wonder what old Lant wants to keep secret,” Kvothe said as soon as the door was closed behind them. “I hope he’s not too long about it.”

  “He’s got two children by the Widow Creel,” Bast said matter-of-factly.

  Kvothe raised an eyebrow at that. “Really?”

  Bast shrugged. “Everyone in town knows.”

  Kvothe humphed at this as he settled down into a large upholstered chair. “What are we going to do with ourselves for half an hour?” he asked.

  “It’s been ages since we’ve had lessons.” Bast pulled a wooden chair away from the small desk and sat on the edge of it. “You could teach me something.”

  “Lessons,” Kvothe mused. “You could read Celum Tinture.”

  “Reshi,” Bast said imploringly. “It’s so boring. I don’t mind lessons, but do they need to be book lessons?”

  Bast’s tone wrung a smile from Kvothe. “A puzzle lesson then?” Bast’s face broke into a grin. “Very well, let me think for a second.” He tapped his fingers against his lips and let his eyes wander the room. It wasn’t long before they were drawn to the foot of the bed where the dark chest lay.

  He made a casual gesture. “How would you open my chest if you had a mind to?”

  Bast’s expression grew slightly apprehensive. “Your thrice-locked chest, Reshi?”

  Kvothe looked at his student, then laughter bubbled up out of him. “My what?” he asked incredulously.

  Bast blushed and looked down. “That’s just how I think of it,” he mumbled.

  “As names go . . .” Kvothe hesitated, a smile playing around his mouth. “Well, it’s a little storybook, don’t you think?”

  “You’re the one who made the thing, Reshi,” Bast said sullenly. “Three locks and fancy wood and all that. It’s not my fault if it sounds storybook.”

  Kvothe leaned forward and rested an apologetic hand on Bast’s knee. “It’s a fine name, Bast. Just caught me off my guard is all.” He leaned back again. “So. How would you attempt to plunder the thrice-locked chest of Kvothe the Bloodless?”

  Bast smiled. “You sound like a pirate when you say it that way, Reshi.” He gave the chest a speculative look from across the room. “I suppose asking you for the keys is out of the question?” he asked at last.

  “Correct,” Kvothe said. “For our purposes, assume I have lost the keys. Better yet, assume I am dead, and you are now free to pry into all my secret things.”

  “That’s a little grim, Reshi,” Bast reproached gently.

  “Life is a little grim, Bast,” Kvothe said without any hint of laughter in his voice. “You’d best start getting used to it.” He waved a hand toward the chest. “Go on, I’m curious to see how you go about cracking this little chestnut.”

  Bast gave him a flat look. “Puns are worse than book lessons, Reshi,” he said, walking over to the chest. He nudged it idly with his foot, then bent and looked at the two separate lock plates, one dark iron, the other bright copper. Bast prodded the rounded lid with a finger, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t say as I care for this wood, Reshi. And the iron lock is positively unfair.”

  “What a useful lesson this has already been,” Kvothe said dryly. “You’ve deduced a universal truth: things are usually unfair.”

  “There aren’t any hinges, either!” Bast exclaimed, looking at the back of the chest. “How can you have a lid without any hinges?”

  “That did take me a while to work out,” Kvothe admitted with a touch of pride.

  Bast got down on his hands and knees and looked into the copper keyhole. He lifted one hand and pressed it flat against the copper plate. Then he closed his eyes and went very still, as if he were listening.

  After a moment of this, he leaned forward and breathed against the lock. When nothing happened, his mouth began to move. While his words were spoken too softly to hear, they carried an undeniable tone of entreaty.

  After a long moment of this, Bast sat back on his haunches, frowning. Then he grinned playfully, reached out with a hand, and knocked on the lid of the chest. It made barely any noise at all, as if he were rapping h
is knuckle against a stone.

  “Out of curiosity,” Kvothe asked. “What would you do if something knocked back?”

  Bast came to his feet, left the room, and returned a moment later with an assortment of tools. He got to one knee and, using a piece of bent wire, fiddled with the copper lock for several long minutes. Eventually he began to curse under his breath. When he shifted position to get a different angle, his hand brushed the dull iron faceplate of the lock and he jerked back, hissing and spitting.

  Getting back to his feet, Bast threw down the wire and brought out a long prybar of bright metal. He tried to work the thin end of it under the lid, but couldn’t gain any purchase in the hair-thin seam. After a few minutes he abandoned this as well.

  Next, Bast tried to tip the chest on its side to examine the bottom, but his best efforts only managed to slide it an inch or so across the floor. “How much does this weigh, Reshi?” Bast exclaimed, looking rather exasperated. “Three hundred pounds?”

  “Over four hundred when it’s empty,” Kvothe said. “Remember the trouble we had getting it up the stairs?”

  Sighing, Bast examined the chest for another long moment, his expression fierce. Then he extracted a hatchet from his bundle of tools. It wasn’t the rough, wedge-headed hatchet they used to cut kindling behind the inn. It was slender and menacing, all forged of a single piece of metal. The shape of its blade was vaguely reminiscent of a leaf.

  He tossed the weapon lightly in his palm, as if testing its weight. “This is where I would go next, Reshi. If I were genuinely interested in getting inside.” He gave his teacher a curious look. “But if you’d rather I not. . . .”

  Kvothe made a helpless gesture. “Don’t look to me, Bast. I’m dead. Do as you will.”

  Bast grinned and brought the hatchet down on the rounded peak of the chest. There was a strange, soft, ringing noise, like a padded bell being struck in a distant room.

  Bast paused, then rained a flurry of angry blows down on the top of the chest. First swinging wildly with one hand, then using both hands in great overhand chopping motions, as if he were splitting wood.